A bluebird was in the yard today.  I don't know what she was thinking.  Lately, the February sun shines with promise and the temperatures are up, but it's not nearly time for spring migration.  Whether she's a loitering left-behind from fall or an early bird, jumping the gun on getting south fast, I can only guess.  And whatever the reason for her presence is, I am grateful.  Her coat was drab and mothy, as if she were too harried to care much about her looks.  Still, the sky blue hem on her wings was unmistakeable against the wash of brown branches now free of snow.  She sat for a while on a small arm of our cherry tree.  Having become so accustomed to the twitchy flitting and restless antics of the juncos and chick-a-dees, I felt pleasantly refreshed and relaxed as I watched the bluebird.  It was a kind of meditation for me.  There she was, a blue dot in the tree, a living dot, a warm dot, surviving, without ostensible anxiety or worry.  Maybe there was no food nearby, but she would find some not far away.  Or she wouldn't maybe.  The conclusion would come to her.  And not the other way around. 
     Birds are an inspiration.